


Old Friends

by SoraMJigen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark, Death, Depression, Disguise, Disguised Sherlock, Drunk John, Drunkenness, Grief/Mourning, Hurt John Watson, Implied/Referenced Character Death, London, Missing You, Old Friends, Other, Reichenbach-Related, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock's Violin, Violins, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoraMJigen/pseuds/SoraMJigen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot. A few days after Reichenbach and John finds himself reacquainting with old friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look it's my first Sherlock fic. Well, here's hoping I got everything right and whatnot. It takes place after Reichenbach. Enjoy and thank you for reading this. :)

Sherlock had faded into the world a few days ago and since then John found himself in a void of pain and loneliness. 

The flat had seemed so empty, even with him in it. His calloused fingers traced over the smiley face Sherlock injected with bullets. Nothing could make this man smile again and even if it could, it would be a performance to acknowledge everyone that he was all right. Yet John Hamish Watson knew he wasn’t alright. He had picked up an old friend that he had mildly abandoned when he and Sherlock had their first adventure together. It was a vicious acquaintance that liked to whisper into John’s ears, promising him sweet euphoria and the idea of a painless world that he could rule. Eventually he would join this friend and while he wouldn’t revel in their peculiar friendship, Sherlock would be there to stop him in case he invested too much in this particular friend. Sherlock could tell this friend was John’s problem since day one and both of them knew that. They were aware of how acute and accurate Sherlock’s distinct perceptions were and how spot on the man could be. 

But now with Sherlock gone, no one could stop John’s friend feeding off his depression. His friend often took form in bottles of rum that warmed the body and numbed any pain, in hits of vodka that would sear his throat so that he couldn’t speak Sherlock’s name, and in shots of absinthe to erase Sherlock from his memory and restart his brain. John had dealt with the harder friends before and knew when to stop before crossing the danger line that would leave him in a hospital. He was no stranger to alcohol poisoning and knew how much his body could withstand before his friends would subdue him into sleep. 

It was sentimentally sickening to be in this flat on Baker Street. This once self-claimed paradise was now a shrine to the life he led with Sherlock. He could feel that life slip away no sooner he saw Sherlock’s body on the cold pavement, blood dripping down from his forehead. Sherlock’s chair was nothing more than a placeholder for the man who once sat there and spoke with John and clients. It seemed so strange to see that chair empty; yes John had seen the chair without Sherlock in it before, but now it was a sad strangeness that stabbed his heart. 

Running his fingers along Sherlock’s skull friend, he knew that would be Sherlock’s metamorphosis. Skin and muscle eroding like rocks and turning into a sandy skull that would rot with time. He would be like everyone else who had encountered Death and knew his wicked transformation skills. John knew the world would feast on Sherlock happily and he clenched his fists tightly at the idea of life’s natural cycle. Being a doctor, the thought of corpses and autopsies didn’t bother him much. Even the sickliest of diseases would never make him cringe, for he had seen far worse in the war. When presented with something as horrific as a charred body or a deep wound he would shrug it off, momentarily recalling his past before getting to work. But now it was different. Now it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock who John imagined beneath the dirt and knowing everything that would happen under Death’s spell. How the hungry Earth had swallowed him and would continue to do so until dust sunk into the roots and gave way to some form of life. 

He knew he had to escape the flat somehow and move away. Start over somewhere, forget every single fragment that would help him remember Sherlock and their adventures. Maybe meet someone, marry, settle down, and have a child or two. A little boy would be nice, though a little girl would be better. She would go on to be an honor student, get the lead role in the school play, and never in all her life ask why her father would stay up late sometimes with a glass of rum in his hand or how to play the violin.

The violin haunted and calmed John when he lived with Sherlock. In death, it had the same, strange effect that John often sought out from bars where open mic night invited young violinists and many others to take the stage. Even those who had mastered the instrument decades before John’s birth failed to lack that something that only Sherlock had. It was something deep and profound, like a lost scripture of Plato or a forgotten philosophy of Thoreau. 

John’s eyes fell over the violin, the only other thing Sherlock had ever loved in his life. So sleek and still polished, as though it had recently been purchased. There was no sheet music to be found, yet John knew every song that Sherlock played like the back of his hand. In his mind he heard those smooth notes played on those slender strings and for a brief moment it soothed his soul. Those thin fingers controlling the bow and the mere precision of how each note was to be struck gave way to the face of the man who had changed his life. The mere visage of Sherlock in his head stung him like a wasp striking skin. It was something he should have been used to by now, but it seemed to grow stronger with every passing day. Sighing deeply, John knew he had to get out. For how long he didn’t know, but he head to get away somehow.  
Maybe meeting a friend at the bar would be good.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

His friend told him to chug, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. John had already torn through enough bottles to get a few leers from other bar goers. Fuck them; they didn’t know the thoughts in his head, the whispering friend dancing in a glass of rum before him, or the pain he had endured. John scowled to himself, downing the warm liquid that settled his tense bones. The drink empowered the whispering, drowning out the very pain that brought him here. 

“Hey, I think you’ve had enough,” the bartender spoke unsympathetically as John’s hazy dazy eyes turned into stern shards. The whispering grew loud, ringing in his head, demanding another burning remedy. 

“F-fuck off, man. Y-y….you don’t know what I’m g-goin through.”

“Sir, I’m not serving you another drink. You’re cut off for the night.”

“No I’m—“

John’s angered yell was quickly silenced by the lone cry of a violin coming from a miniature stage at the front of the bar. Sharply turning his head, his friend fell silent as John gazed upon the source of the sound. Each note was soft and delicate as it broke through the veil of John’s drunkenness and flashed memories of Sherlock’s fingers on the violin. Staring at the player, he could have sworn that the violinist had pale milky fingers as they rested on the slender, dark neck and controlled the thin bow. His fogged eyes widened at the sight of those fingers and wondered who this musician was. Their face was bowed, hidden in the shadow of concentration, the dim spotlight, and the very darkness that seemed to engulf the bar around him. Those tender notes had that slight, deep distinction that Sherlock had when he played and the performer even had Sherlock’s curls. Clad in a dark suit, the person oozed mystery and draped John with a thousand emotions that made him forget to breathe. 

The whispering friend was gone as his wasted mind avoided any logical reasoning or questioning. This had to be Sherlock, for the love of God, the violinist was even as tall and slender as him! Albeit, they had a bit of a curve, but Sherlock had that, John knew he did, and would not believe otherwise. Tearing through the gathering crowd that huddled around the small stage to watch the violinist, John felt his sluggish feet trip him and stumble, his brain only focusing on seeing the face of this performer and forgetting the ability to properly walk or function. He crashed into people and bumped into them, his body swaying like an unstable sea. Their irritation was ignored as John’s pounding heart silenced any anger expressed toward him. Those gentle notes lured him to reach the stage faster and yet John felt as though no matter how quickly he tried to walk, he felt himself going slower. His friend returned, reeling and speaking in his ear to turn from the stage and drink more of the euphoria inducing elixir. John mentally quieted him, wanting only to see nothing more than his friend who he believed to be dead.

As the final note stretched the end of the song, the violinist slowly looked up and sucker punched John’s heart. With her amber eyes and full, pouty pink lips John realized that the woman before him was not Sherlock. Her eyes were not Sherlock, her skin was not Sherlock, her hair was not Sherlock. She was just another woman who happened to have that certain distinct depth that John only thought Sherlock had possessed while playing the violin. She also happened to look like Sherlock from a distance and once more, his friend lingered in his ear, attempting to cajole him with the promise of utopia in a bottle, and soothing the aching pain in his chest. Sighing to himself, John knew the barkeep wouldn’t let him have another drink. 

“Sherlock…,” John’s voice was so small in the crowd as their applause and praises roared over him.

Their frames melded with the shadows as they seemed to tower over him, clapping for the fake Sherlock. Every clap reminded of John of the click clack of camera flashes at various press releases where Sherlock was honored like a hero, though Sherlock was not a hero or so he self-proclaimed. He was just a man people on a pedestal because he actually used his brain to its full extent. 

Slowly weaving through the crowd who parted for him as though wanting him to leave, John dared not look over his shoulder to meet the smoldering eyes of fake Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes never burned unless when angered and John loved how brightly those orbs raged like an uncontrollable bonfire.

Stumbling out of the bar, the cold night air struck him with a hundred punches to his body. Turning up his coat collar, John bowed his head and tried to remember the way home. Sherlock would turn up his collar to be a showoff and John cringed, knowing he had just done that, but to keep the warmth close to him. Sighing, his feet staggered on the pavement as they carried him through the darkness. He could hail a cab if he wanted to and it would have been a smart decision, but he decided against this option, and proceeded to walk in the cold. Somewhere in the deep dark, Baker Street called for him like a friend refusing to be abandoned. It was a mournful cry, filled with the wind’s howl, and the undeniable truth that Sherlock would not be there. Sherlock would not be anywhere other than inside the Earth, a place John could not get to, and would not get to for a very long time. 

Somewhere among the relentless wind, the soft strings of a violin were heard. Stopping dead in his tracks, John wheeled on his heel and looked behind him to see if the fake Sherlock was following him. In the dark street behind him, he did not see her smoldering eyes or her pouty lips. He heard his friend whisper to jump into the nearest bar and drink away that ungodly, haunting sound. Gritting his teeth, John grunted in frustration and stumbled onward into the cold. Rounding the corner, he figured he couldn’t be that far from Baker Street.

Once again, John heard that phantom violin and cringed. This time it was closer now, softer, but closer. It wasn’t from his back, but more so his front as though it was calling out to him like an old memory. Something in his brain told him to run towards it, as though he would never heard that sound again. Something in his head wove the fantasy that Sherlock had his window open and was playing the violin, an ode to the night around them. Something in his imagination told John that Sherlock was playing to guide him home and assure him that he wasn’t lost and never would be. Yet John knew the truth and silenced those fantasies, clinging to the unshakable reality he was enduring. His friend on the other hand tried persuading him to abandon the soft strings and dive into a glass of rum. Frustrated with himself, he wasn’t sure what voice to listen to; the voice of an addiction or the voice that reminded him of an old friend who would never re-

“Whoa, mate you k,” a clear voice spoke. 

The friend in his ear silenced himself along with the ghostly violin. Not even looking at the owner of those vocals, John snarled to himself. The last thing he wanted to attract was attention, but currently being indisposed didn’t help. Where this man had come from, John didn’t know and didn’t even take notice. He could have sworn he saw no one in front of him as he walked down the street.

“Y-yeah I’m…I’m fine. Just shove off, k?”

John’s irritation enticed the dark coated man before him to pursue him. Watching him with pristine, bluish green eyes the shadowy man observed John’s behavior. Stumbling, slurred speech pattern, the potent scent of alcohol, the man sighed; John Watson was completely smashed. Even after completely disguising his voice and language, it would make sense as to why John wouldn’t see through the facade. His drunkenness had blinded him and in a way, it helped the mysterious man. 

“You don’t look good, let me at least get you a cab or –“

“I said I’m fine! All right?! Now fuck off!”

‘Idiot,’ the man mouthed under his breath.

Refusing to take no for an answer, the man in the dark jacket sighed and ran his fingers through his hooded, black curls. John was always a stubborn one. Yet the man knew he couldn’t let John see his identity, it would be too difficult to explain, and hurt too much. Plus, he had much business to attend to in the world. It was his last night roaming around London and only recently had he returned from 221B Baker Street where Ms. Hudson was asleep with a bottle of gin by her side. The elderly woman could handle her liquor, but there were sometimes she forgot how much. 

The man was able to slip in and out of the flat like the ghost he was to London. So far no one had seen him and that was how he intended it. Then again, no one was on the streets at this late hour with the cold beating at their back and exhaustion rising in their eyes. He was rather grateful for the solitude of London streets and often enjoyed it. The man only hoped he could get John home without him noticing or Ms. Hudson waking up. He hated to do this, but he had no choice. He didn’t want to see John roam the streets completely hammered because he knew that sooner or later John would give into his friend’s persuasion and stumble into a bar. By morning he would find himself in a hospital due to alcohol poisoning because the very thought of losing his best friend was slowly killing him day by day. The mystery man didn’t want to see or hear that his only friend was stuck in the hospital because he had faked his death. In a way, it would kill him, if not force him to abandon his plans altogether. The man couldn’t handle it or take that risk.

John didn’t expect the sudden blow to the back of his head from the stranger who offered him help. In a mere moment, he saw a flash as brilliant as the moon on a clear evening. In that brilliant blaze he saw nothing, but a painless plain of white that offered no comfort or solace. Within a second, the moonbeam like flash was gone as it dwindled into dusty stars and died in complete darkness. Unconscious, John didn’t even feel the cold pavement beneath him. He didn’t even feel the mystery man catch John in his arms to prevent him from cracking his skull on the sidewalk. The mystery man’s eyes searched the streets quickly; there wasn’t much time and he couldn’t risk being seen. Borrowing the dark street and the night, he managed to wave down an oncoming cab. Once the vehicle slowed, the man hoisted John into the backseat of the cab, and gave the driver the amount needed as well as a gratuitous tip as an incentive.

“Get ‘im to 221B Baker Street, all right?”

Slamming the cab door, the mystery man watched as the vehicle sped off into the shadows. It would be the last time he saw John Hamish Watson until he chose to rise from the grave in all his spectacular glory. Until then, he needed to fade away into the world. When the time was right he would return to London and the open arms of his dearest and only friend. 

His cell phone played a soft, violin tune as he examined the incoming message. It was time to disappear into the world and return when he would be the needed the most. A time when no one else, but him could solve an impossible case and protect London at all costs. When that would be, the mystery man did not know, but he hoped it wouldn’t be soon.


End file.
